The Crimes and Conversations of Conduit Street
by Master Of All Imagination
Summary: One-shots based off a table of 100 prompts, all featuring Moriarty and Moran. Often but not always MorMor, includes fluff, angst, romance, adventure and basically any other genre you can think of. T for language.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: First off, a little introduction to the following fic. It will consist of ten chapters made up of ten different drabbles, dribbles, one-shots, scraps of various lengths, or assorted ephemera, all based off one-word prompts taken from a table of 100 and invariably featuring Professor James Moriarty and Colonel Sebastian Moran. Many are slash, many are pre-slash, others are ambiguous and a few are friendship. There's a good helping of angst, more fluff than I could probably have believably attributed to them but which I couldn't help writing, some drama, some adventure, H/C, and occasionally something just random. They have no chronological or numerical order and many of them are different versions of the same event, so they won't necessarily agree with each other. Now that you've been fully informed and prepared, feel free to enjoy. :)****  
**

2. Beautiful

It was a beautiful gun. Its mechanism was smooth, easy to work. The wood gleamed with the labors of half an hour of polishing. Its barrel was perfectly straight, the sight excellently aligned. The balance on the thing was better than a dancer's. Moran itched to try it out, to load the airgun and fire at something, anything. His fingers twitched happily along its length. He showered it with the caresses a husband might give his wife and let out a small sigh.

Moriarty looked up from the armchair where he was reading a newspaper and said disdainfully,

"That is a gift, Moran, not a woman. Treat it as such."

Moran could only smirk.

* * *

25. Waiting

"Wait here," Moriarty said, turning away to stroll briskly up the gravel driveway. He hadn't even given Moran time to acquiesce. Then again, he already knew what his answer would be. Moran would never think of disobeying Moriarty.

Moran stuck his hands in his pockets and kicked a few pebbles around aimlessly, glancing up at the sprawling manor home every so often. He didn't have a problem with waiting. Being able to wait was an integral part of being a hunter, except they didn't call it waiting. They called it stalking.

Moran looked up with a grin as a strange thought entered his mind.

_Does that mean I'm stalking Moriarty then?_

* * *

52. Knighthood

"He's been nominated. _Again_," Moriarty grumbled, throwing a newspaper down on the coffee table. Moran smirked over the rim of his coffee cup. He didn't even have to glance at the paper to know to whom his partner was referring to.

"You mean Sherlock Holmes?" he said, choosing to be a bit dense.

"Of course I mean Holmes," Moriarty practically snarled, throwing himself down in his customary armchair. "Certainly not the Pope. What does the Crown see in that sniveling, intellectually inferior copy of me?"

_A law-abiding man,_ Moran was tempted to whisper under his breath.

"Sadly, not all people can see your genius as clearly as I can," he settled with instead.

In the midst of Moriarty's frustration the compliment almost went unnoticed, but only for a few seconds.

"If only everyone were as observant as you are," Moriarty rejoined amusedly, despite himself a smile pulling at his mouth.

"He turned it down, I presume?"

"As he always does. Come, bring me that book on the shelf above your head there, I wish to distract myself from this distasteful occurrence."

Moran did as he was told, handed the book over and returned to his coffee.

_That's another difference between you and him,_ he thought with a certain fondness. _You wouldn't have turned it down._

* * *

37. Hidden

Moran was gone on an assignment. Moriarty knew this because he'd seen him off himself. Yet he couldn't prevent something of a furtive note entering his movements, couldn't resist a glance over his shoulder to scan the flat they shared. It was deserted, as he knew it would be.

Shaking his momentary paranoia off, he withdrew a key to his desk from his pocket watch chain and headed over to his desk, unlocking a hidden side drawer. It slid open smoothly, baring its contents: several slips of paper, a cardboard folio the size of his palm, a luscious blue carbuncle that lay over its coiled gold chain, and several other keys. He withdrew the folio, careful not to disturb the other contents. He flipped it open.

Inside lay a photo of Moran in full military dress, taken sometime before his discharge from the army. Moriarty allowed his eyes to settle on it and drink in the familiar visage. One of his lackeys had brought it to him along with Moran's file when he had first looked into recruiting the disgraced sniper.

It had just been a photo at the time. Now, however, it was something more.

And that was why Moriarty kept it hidden.

* * *

36. Entwined

The train bumped along steadily, speeding them out of Paris and deeper into the Continent. Moran had sat across from Moriarty for a while in their private, first-class compartment, but after an hour or so he shifted to be next to his employer. Moriarty raised a single eyebrow in response, then went back to staring placidly out of the window.

His hand rested softly on the seat beside him, the other supporting his chin as he leaned his elbow upon the window sill. Moran found himself contemplating the other man's fingers. They were short and uncalloused, as his profession allowed them to be. The fingers entranced him and began to consume his imagination. What would they feel like if he suddenly decided to grasp them with his own? What would they feel like if they were to brush across his cheek or slip around his waist?

They were dangerous fantasies, that he knew. But if they remained firmly entrenched in his mind, surely then he was safe?

Engrossed by his thoughts, Moran was oblivious to the fact that Moriarty was in fact watching the sniper's reflection in the window and had been able to do much more than guess at the thoughts reflected in his features.

Only the smallest movement was necessary to contrive that his little finger should brush against Moran's thumb. He would call watching the ex-army man react a social experiment, though it was not _quite _that simple.

Moran started slightly, but did not draw away his own hand. Instead he leaned back in his seat and cautiously moved his hand a bit farther towards Moriarty's.

Moriarty grasped it the second it was close enough, firmly entwining their fingers around each other. Moran was not quite able to contain his reaction as he had been before, and he dared a quick glance sideways to gauge his employer's emotions. As ever, his impassive face gave nothing away. It was if nothing out of the ordinary had just occurred at all.

But if Moriarty wasn't objecting, who was Moran to? A smile began to steal over his features, watched by Moriarty in his window with a slight satisfaction.

Maybe they can't be blamed if they stayed that way all the way up until their train pulled into the station. After all, Moriarty was nothing but thorough in his experiments.

* * *

24. Longing

In Conduit Street, Moran ran his hands along every surface of the second story flat they had shared, making soft trails in the thin film of dust that had gathered since he'd dismissed the maid. Every sight brought back memories, and with the memories pain. He stopped at the fireplace, head bowed, and clenched his fist on the mantelpiece. Tears were fighting hard to squeeze their way out of his eyes, but he'd cried enough at Reichenbach, enough to last him a whole lifetime, and he had promised himself it would not happen again. Nothing would ever affect him that way again.

Somewhere deep in Asia, Moriarty, hot on Holmes's trail, withdrew the red notebook his hated nemesis had replaced the original with and took out the slightly dog-eared photograph that rested within the pages. Moran looked unsmilingly up at him from the old army photograph he had kept in his secret desk drawer for so long. He took a moment to thank himself, once more, for whatever instinct had told him to bring it along before they made the trip to Reichenbach, and for the stupid, impulsive decision to double back to the hotel and retrieve it after his near-disastrous encounter with Sherlock Holmes.

It represented everything he was fighting for now. He couldn't go home until he had killed Holmes. He wouldn't let himself. His obsession had reached new heights since what he had come to refer to as his Fall, and the obsession would not let him go. It also meant that he could not see Moran again until he had dealt with Holmes.

Obsession was hard to combat, but one of its staunchest resistors is longing: and Moriarty's longing for Moran fought a stiff battle, and it was at last beginning to gain the upper hand.

* * *

100. Destiny

"Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck_," he swore aloud, scrambling down the rocky slope so fast he nearly lost his own life. There was no way Moriarty was dead, no damn way on that green earth that he had fallen to his death from three hundred feet above.

The water rushed by at incredibly fast speeds, even at the distance Moran was from its base.

"Moriarty!" he called over the fall's distant roar of thunder. "_Moriarty!_" he tried again, louder, scorching his lungs with cold air and spray as he took a deep breath.

There was no response. Had he really expected one? His chest was surprisingly tight, his throat uncomfortably choked, and it took a moment to realize that it was not the river spray making his eyes water but his own tears.

"MORIARTY!" he screamed again. And again. "PROFESSOR! WHERE ARE YOU?" He turned in short circles on the rocky bank, hysteria slowly mounting and taking hold of his senses. "This is no time for your games!"

He chuckled then, a mad sound. The only sound to be heard except for the dying echoes of his scream and the rush of water. "Where are you?" he cried after listening to the silence, his voice feeble and choked.

Then the horrid truth swept over him like the water over the stones in the riverbed, merciless and undeniable: James Moriarty had fallen. The great professor was no more.

"_James_," he breathed. "Oh, James. Oh my dear James." He fell to his knees, his head dropping into his hands as he wept great shaking sobs of helplessness and frustration and anger as it all came crashing down upon him. Colonel Sebastian Moran was no more. No more than a lone man, screaming a name to the empty sky under an unforgiving waterfall, ever destined to be unanswered.

* * *

1. First Impression

The East-End pub was dingy and ill-lit, smelt of cigarette smoke and other less pleasant things, and was owned by a barman of at least as shady character as his patrons. In short, a perfectly typical example of the seedier variety of a London pub. It didn't take Moriarty long to pick out his mark, a tall ginger bearded man slumped at the far stool, lost in his drink.

He had all the classic signs of desperation. Moriarty could see them in his posture, in the way he clutched his mug, in the circles under his eyes from lack of sleep, the untrimmed beard that Moriarty could tell was usually well kempt by the way its owner kept scratching at it.

As first impressions went, Moriarty was not all too struck by his prospective new employee. He seemed a common type, full of vile impulses and not possessed of much brain power. However, the stories brought back to him by his cronies told otherwise, and as he had already come all the way down to the pub he might as well make the effort.

Switching his stick deftly from his right hand to his left he advanced on the man and took the adjacent stool, extending his newly free hand to the man.

Mr. Ginger Beard did nothing but stare at it for a moment, drink-fogged reflexes slow to respond, and when he finally did react it was only to say "Whhhrroeerr yoouh?"

"Professor James Moriarty," he announced, withdrawing his hand. "And I'm here to make you an offer, Colonel Moran: an offer that you will not be able to refuse."

* * *

40. Heart

The wound was bleeding profusely, but the man who'd fired the shot had already disappeared, most likely running for his life like the coward that he was. Cowardly, and an uncommonly lucky shot.

Moran tore his eyes away from the retreating figure just in time to see Moriarty's look of shock and fear as he crumpled to the ground. He rushed to his side, but it was already too late: his life was draining fast.

A thousand thoughts flitted through Moran's mind, of how to find help, what to do to stop the blood that was seeping everywhere, what to say, what to _do_, before his army training took over and he could calmly assess the wound. It was fatal, right to the heart. Moriarty's breathing was already labored, his eyes staring unfixed at the ceiling. Yet an overwhelming urge welled from his own heart, overrode his training and flitted to his lips, and he let it free.

"I love you," he whispered desperately.

"I… know…" Moriarty gasped, blood gurgling from his lips. "It was always… your one… weakness."

His eyes grew wide and blinked furiously a couple of times, then his chest ceased to rise and fall or move at all, and Moran knew he was dead.

* * *

5. Risk

The professor's office at the university was deserted when Moran slipped in quietly- except for the owner himself. Moriarty stood facing the window, his back to Moran, and did not turn even when he heard the lock click closed on the door. Moran walked softly over to him and slipped his arms around the professor's waist, stealing a chaste kiss on his lips when Moriarty turned in his arms.

"Not here, Moran," Moriarty chastised in annoyance. "We agreed that we would take no risks."

"Why not? There's no one around."

"I haven't gotten where I am today by not being careful. You would do well to remember that," he said with finality, shrugging off Moran's embrace. Moran, however, would not be deterred so easily.

He stepped nimbly up behind his employer and planted a light kiss on his cheek before bouncing off to the door, leaving Moriarty no time to respond.

"You'll miss me," he threw over his shoulder playfully as he unlocked the door and left.

A few seconds later, Moriarty was forced to admit ruefully to himself that he would indeed.


	2. Chapter 2

15. Kiss

"There is nothing you can hide from me, Moran," Moriarty said lowly, almost threateningly.

"You'd be surprised the things you don't know," Moran returned, slightly shocked at his own insubordination. Nevertheless, he was too riled up to care. He hadn't even addressed him as "sir" or "professor," something he had never forgotten up until then.

His defiance enraged the professor. Moriarty advanced on Moran, forcing him backwards until he hit up against the grimy brick wall of the alleyway.

"I would beg to differ," he snarled, his face inches away. They stood immobile, sizing each other up, waiting for the other to back down, an unstoppable force that had hit an immovable object. It occurred to Moran to wonder if Moriarty really meant what he said. Had he unraveled his last secret? The thing that had ruined his military career, the burden that he had cursed and loved his whole life?

Well, there was only one way to find out.

He closed their distance suddenly and pressed a passion-fueled kiss to Moriarty's lips, praying and hoping and dreading that he would return it. For the most awful of moments, Moriarty did not move a muscle.

But the moment passed, and Moriarty kissed back, suddenly lost in wild abandonment brought on by the most passionate kiss he'd ever received. His hands went carefully to Moran's hair and waist, then less carefully shoved the other man firmly up against the wall.

Moran kissed back with equal ferocity. He had had no idea the professor _wanted _him that badly. Almost as much as he wanted the professor, he was willing to wager.

Moriarty could barely break himself away for long enough to gasp out, "Perhaps you'd like to rethink your earlier statement?"

"Mmm," Moran growled inbetween kisses. "You're bloody omnipotent, that's what I think."

"Ensure you don't forget it in the future-"

Moran cut him off sharply by joining their lips together again. After that, it was physically impossible to continue conversation- nor did either of them care to.

* * *

35. Rest

Moriarty set the gramophone carefully whirring to life. Classical opera drifted out of the bronze contraption, filling the room with rich, tenor notes sung in a foreign language filled with vibrato. He crossed the room to return to his chair, the starlight streaming from the man-high, ten foot wide windows briefly silhouetting him.

He sat calmly, fingers steepled, the closest expression to peacefulness Moran ever saw on his employer's face save for when he indulged in his "little habit," as he so often referred to it. The sniper himself, sunk low in an armchair across from Moriarty's, had just been drifting off, but he was stirred awake when Moriarty added his own voice to the gramophone's. He was singing quietly, barely loud enough to distinguish over the record.

Moran let the sound lull him to sleep, strangely content in an armchair in his employer's flat, quite oblivious to Moriarty's watchful yet protective gaze. He followed Moran into the arms of Morpheus soon after.

* * *

73. Stone

It was a cold January day. The graveyard was deserted save for one man trudging slowly between the long lines of graves. The wind rustled the flowers placed by well-kept plots, and the weeds that grew by the less fortunate ones.

The man stopped in front of a plain stone grave, unique only for its solitary spot under an old spreading oak tree. A cold breeze played with the wildflowers he held slackly in his hand, teasing some loose and blowing them away.

The grave was still too recent to have grown its own covering of weeds, but it was an unavoidable fate. After that day, the man knew that no one would return to tend it.

For the man who lay below the plain stone grave, marked only with a name, had been hated by all, feared by all, and loathed by all, with only two exceptions. One had beaten him and sent him to his death. The other had loved him and now stood before it to lay down his offering of flowers.

A pathetic offering, when he considered all that he had once laid down: his life, his loyalty, his courage, his love. But it was all he had left.

"Goodbye," he said softly, his whisper mingling with the wind.

He had hoped to leave the weight that had plagued his heart for so long behind in the graveyard, but it only seemed to weigh more heavily afterwards. Like a stone in his chest, a broken-off piece of the grave marker bearing the simple name "MORIARTY."

* * *

45. Wound

It was a terrible wound, and he would have to live with it for the rest of his life.

The fall from Reichenbach had broken his leg in two places and shattered the ribs on his right side. The incompetent Swiss doctor who'd attended him had done a butcher's job of setting the ribs, and as a result they hadn't healed properly. Now they pained him almost constantly.

The leg had turned out slightly better, but when you are obliged to swim through raging currents after falling three hundred feet and then hike two miles to seek medical care, one does not do any favors for an injury. The fancy walking stick Moriarty had occasionally been wont to carry was now a permanent feature of his dress.

Wherever Holmes was, he hoped he had suffered the same or worse. It would save him time later on when he finally caught up with him.

* * *

42. Eye

"An eye for an eye," he muttered to himself as he aligned the sight of his air gun. The same one Moriarty had given him all that time ago. It was fitting that a bequest from his dead benefactor should be the item that would avenge him, at least in part.

He hadn't been able to track down Holmes, the other half of the duo to blame for Moriarty's death, but he now had Watson in the sight of his gun. Completely at his mercy. And he wouldn't be missing this chance.

His only regret was that Watson would not know the purpose his death would serve. But he supposed the role of an assassin had always been thankless, unnoticed by rote, and why should that change now?

He took one last look to be sure of his aim.

Moran's finger tightened on the trigger.

The drapes surrounding the window Watson stood at fluttered.

A body fell with the strike of the bullet, but when the curtain drew aside again, Watson still stood.

The doctor was shaking another figure violently, a woman who had suddenly appeared slumped against the broken window. His shaking dislodged her, leaving a smear of blood on the glass. Briefly Moran caught the profile of his unintended victim: the shapely features and blonde hair of a woman, most likely none other than Mrs. Mary Watson.

He swallowed thickly as he realized what he had done and who he had shot.

With a little more force than was necessary Moran disassembled his gun and packed it away, leaving the rooftop he had shot from quickly. He tried to tell himself it didn't matter. She had gone to her husband's side at the wrong time, he had done nothing. Besides, this way Watson would suffer more. Wasn't that what he had wanted to do? Cause suffering?

The guilt which had sprung up so unexpectedly and unwelcome was hard to stomach, but he forced it back down, covering it with lies like he always did with difficult truths.

_This way he'll suffer more for it,_ he repeated to himself. _It doesn't matter._

But she was innocent. She hadn't deserved it. Just like Moriarty. Neither of them deserved to die, it was the _doctor _who should be bleeding-

Then why hadn't he gone after him? Taken a second shot when he was off his guard?

Because he had failed to achieve the release he had thought avenging Moriarty would bring.

Because in his heart of hears, he knew he had done wrong.

And because he knew he could always try again when he found Holmes.

* * *

79. Dying

Moriarty coughed, his thin frame wracked by the motion. Grey hair fell into his face, which Moran immediately pushed backwards. He settled on the edge of the sickbed, a worried expression on his face.

"Cough's getting worse?" he asked gently. Moriarty nodded. "The doctor said it'll be worse at the end."

"Don't-" Moriarty wheezed, grabbing Moran's hand. Another coughing fit seized him before he could continue.

"What is it old fellow? Here, have some water," Moran offered, lifting the glass from the bedside table. Moriarty waved it away, and Moran smiled. _Stubborn to the last,_ he thought.

"Don't- fuss over me," he finished. Moran smiled softly. It broke his heart to see the man he'd loved for over twenty years dying in front of his eyes. He'd been dreading this exact moment since Moriarty had been diagnosed with tuberculosis little less than a year ago.

"Bet you never thought you'd die in your bed, did you?" He said softly. "Not with the lives we led for so long."

"After Switzerland, I believed myself invincible," Moriarty commented, and Moran half thought he was serious for a moment before a wry smile cracked his dry lips. "You're still young, however. Plenty of time left for you to be mauled by a tiger, shot in the back, stabbed by a jealous lover…" he fell silent, words too much of an effort.

"You know you're the only man I've ever loved," Moran said. _Or will_, he added mentally. "I knew we'd grow old together. If you had asked me to place a wager on where we would meet our ends, though, I'd have had bet my money on being in a gaol cell for sodomy…" he said, pulling a mock-thoughtful face. Moriarty managed a smile, appreciative of his lover's attempts at levity. But there were things that he had to say before the damned disease took his last rattling breaths away from him.

"If you have…." Moriarty paused, breathing heavily. "… have the choice of your death… choose something… something…." Coughs rendered his last word incoherent

"Nice?" Moran supplied, scoffing. "I don't intend to," he half muttered, pulling something out of his inner jacket pocket. It was a compact pistol, fully loaded. Moran spun the barrel absently, listening to it click into place. "Forget romance. Forget loyalty. Forget sentimentality. Forget all of that for a minute, and before you say anything-" he preempted, having noticed the slight widening of the aged professor's eyes that was as close as he ever came to betraying shock- "I have something to say."

He leaned forward, grasping Moriarty's hand in both of his own, his lined eyes softening. "We've loved each other for twenty years and change. You were my boss, my employer, my lover. And God help me my whole fucking world. Why, in the name of all the demons in hell, would I want to live without you?"

The dying man's eyes found and focused on Moran's, saw the sincerity there, and nodded.

"If this is truly how you feel… I don't think there is any reason I should discourage you, nor any way I could." Moran nodded, and leaned back, but Moriarty's thin hand shot out and pulled him back.

"Indulge a dying man. Lie down beside me. Hold me like you did when we were young."

Nestled into Moriarty's arms, so close he felt every cough as his own, they both felt thirty years younger again, transported back to a time where their whispered "I love you"'s were not a goodbye but a promise of the future.

An hour later, the great Professor James Moriarty, Napoleon of Crime, breathed his last.

A gunshot rang out a moment afterwards.

Then all was silent in the flat.

* * *

22. Home

Home.

Hell if that wasn't a funny word.

He'd been up and down the breadth of the world, and double that distance through Africa, but he'd never called the savannah home, or the frozen Himalayas, or even his native Britain.

He'd been raised in a fine manor, and taught from infancy to think of the place as that famous word. Moran grew out of the habit quickly.

So it made him wonder how all of a sudden the Conduit Street flat he shared with James Moriarty had come to take on the moniker. He'd caught himself thinking about it that way just the other day- _I'd better get home, Moriarty'll be waiting._

_They do say home is where the heart is_, Moran thought as he stepped into their shared sitting room. Moriarty glanced up from a solemn contemplation of his steepled hands and graced him with a quick smile as he entered.

Ah. That must be it.

* * *

57. Care

There had been twelve of them.

Big, aggressive brutes carrying truncheons.

Moran had emptied his Webley into four of the sods, and knifed at least two, but they just kept coming.

After all, twelve against one was hardly fair odds.

They beat him badly- one of Moran's worst, and that was saying something- but they kept him alive.

The biggest one cracked his knuckles and bent down to whisper in Moran's ear.

"Bring this message back to your master, you mongrel pup: no one messes with the O'Clary gang and gets away with it. Not even Moriarty."

Moran would have spit in the man's eye had he not been currently seeing eight of them, or if he had any spit left in his mouth that wasn't currently congealed with blood.

They walked out of the alley, leaving Moran alone.

Moran limped his way back to Conduit Street, nursing several bruised ribs and a broken arm, a jaw that felt dislocated and two black eyes that were already swelling up. It was all he could do to stay standing, even when he eventually reached Conduit Street and finally allowed himself to slump against the door frame of their flat.

He had never hated stairs more.

Moriarty fairly flew to his side, an expression Moran would have labeled as "worry" on his face if he hadn't seen it through a haze of pain.

Any other idiot would have asked "Are you alright?" or even "Are you hurt?" But those stupid enough to ask rarely realized how rhetorical and useless those questions were. Moriarty, no shade of idiot on any scale, let light, searching fingers trace his wounded second-in-command's face and body, assessing damage.

"Funny, Prof," Moran mumbled. "If I didn't know you better I'd say you care about my wellbeing."

"Don't be absurd," Moriarty said, even taking the trouble to scoff. "I am simply ensuring my property is not irreparably damaged."

"Not dead yet, sir."

Moriarty grunted, apparently satisfied with his search, and rang for the maid.

"Summon a doctor," he commanded her curtly.

In the meantime, he couldn't just leave Moran lying on the floor, so he helped him gently to a chair, one arm wrapped firmly around Moran's shoulders.

That was when Moran finally passed out.

The doctor came quickly and had Moran bandaged and set on the way to healing in record time without ever needing a sedative. Between Moriarty and the doctor, they lifted Moran into his own bed to rest, and the doctor took his leave. Moriarty, however, lingered.

"I do care for you, my dear Moran," Moriarty said softly, brushing the hair back from the sleeping man's forehead. "But I will never allow you to see it."

He pressed a light, cold kiss to Moran's forehead and then left the room, hands behind his back, lost in thought.

* * *

31. Cold

It was cold at the top of Reichenbach Falls as Moran and Moriarty waited for Holmes to appear.

"You should take your position, Moran," Moriarty informed him.

"We've still got time. Besides, its bloody cold up there- at least we're out of the wind down here."

Moriarty said nothing. He was pacing slightly and rubbing his hands together- he was by no means immune to the cold that had Moran stamping his feet and furiously chafing his arms.

In fact, Moran looked absolutely miserable, and Moriarty found a small speck of pity growing in his heart.

He walked over to his second in command, shrugging one arm out of his heavy overcoat as he did so. He draped it around the both of them and wound his now-free arm around Moran's waist, pulling him tight to his side.

Moran's eyes lit up in thanks. Slowly he let his head drop down so that his forehead and the professor's gently touched.

It would be the last time they held each other for a long time.

* * *

32. Kindness

The street rat cowered in its filthy nest of blankets, hands raised protectively over a face that was too dirty to determine gender. Its whimpers, however, were definitely female.

"Please, sir," she croaked, her pathetic thin fingers shaking, "I ain't no trouble, 'onest."

Moran hesitated, leaning over her with his knife drawn, and contemplated granting her request. What trouble could a lowly brat cause? He hadn't wanted the job anyways. It was his third time out on Moriarty's orders, and he'd been told to kill her whole family. Some client wanted their petty revenge.

Sighing, he put his bloody knife away and backed off from the poor thing. A little kindness wouldn't hurt him, but he sure as hell wasn't going to be making a habit of it.


End file.
